


Wife of the Kraken

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Minor Character Death, F/F, Kidnapping, POV Daenerys, Salt Wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: Yara has never brought home a prettier, more troublesome bounty, but the rewards will surely be worth it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/gifts).



> This was for got_exchange over at Livejournal, for the prompt "salt wives," and also canon AU. Some minor editing in this.

Thinking was like trying to swim upstream a river. Daenerys struggled against the threat of unconsciousness, though she felt as weak-limbed as a newborn babe. She managed to stir and flutter an eyelash.

“She lives,” said a female voice. For a moment, Daenerys was relieved, but that feeling was short-lived when she recognized the voice.

She was moving—sort of. No, rocking. Like a drunk’s wineskin sloshing back and forth. It was a sensation Daenerys had developed an impressive loathing for after only a few short days. 

“How do you feel, Princess?” Still with that slight mocking lilt.

Trying to answer only made her hack wetly, pain flaring in her throat. Now Daenerys remembered the long jump, the water closing over her head.

“That was quite a trick you pulled,” Yara added, affecting casualness as her knife sliced through an apple. But Daenerys could hear the irritation underneath. A weak burst of triumph flooded her, drowning out the pain. For a moment.

Something must have shown on her face, because Yara kicked the bedframe with a distinct air of petulance. “You’re a very troublesome cargo,” she complained. “Have I not given you a warm bed, decent food, the high honor of being my salt wife? Why must you throw yourself into the ocean? What have you to be upset about?”

Daenerys’s vision was bleary, but she fixed what she hoped was a strong look on the Ironborn captain. “If you meant to romance me, Greyjoy, you might have tried writing sweet poems, or picking wildflowers, or perhaps leaving me free to choose, and not kidnapped me and tried to make me your whore.”

Yara’s boots, wet and disgusting, thumped onto the bedspread next to Daenerys’s head, spraying her with salt. “Salt wives aren’t whores,” she said brusquely, not for the first time. 

“Yes, you have the decency to pay those,” snapped Daenerys, before she could think better of it.

Yara gave her a lazy cat’s grin. “Aye, that I do. Would you prefer to be my whore? I _will_ pay you—in return for your wares, of course.” Daenerys’s scowl made her laugh, but when she opened her mouth to reply Yara cut her off. “And a bit of peace, too, gods be good. Happiest day of my life, today was, before you woke up.”

Anger was burning a hole in Daenerys. “You are insufferable,” she hissed, hands clenching on air. Oh, how she wished for a dagger. “You’re an upjumped girl pretending to be a ship’s captain who’s going to be put down by my brother the king regent, and by the Starks, too. They’ll hear I’m with you and they’ll come for you, and you’ll be sorry you ever took me.”

“From what I hear, I _saved_ you,” Yara snapped, her patience and amusement wiped away.

“From what? My own betrothal?” Daenerys scoffed, though there was a flutter in her gut that agreed with Yara’s assessment.

“Robb’s declared independence, he’s rebelling against the crown—what did you think was going to happen to you? That you’d be kindly sent packing for home?”

“I’ve been betrothed to Robb Stark since I was a child,” Daenerys said stiffly.

Yara snorted. “Aye, I’m sure he would treat you kindly while you were a hostage to ensure the North’s independence.”

He _would_ have—Daenerys had spent the last year with the Starks, ever since her flowering, and if she didn’t love the eldest Stark boy she at least knew he was honorable and decent—but things had grown tense since Ned Stark’s execution at her brother’s order. She could admit, only to herself, it was a relief to be out from under the Northmen’s resentment and suspicion. _Oh, Rhaegar,_ she thought, _why did you have to die? And why did you have to do it before Aegon came of age?_ Viserys made a poor ruler.

“Kinder than you,” she returned anyway.

Yara’s eyes narrowed. “Hate me all you like, but you’re lucky it was me and not one of the other captains that found you.”

That much was true, and Daenerys couldn’t deny it. Even though she’d seen Yara with a female prostitute the night before, she’d never touched Daenerys, despite keeping her in her bed. She settled for glaring. “What good am I to you, anyway? I can’t have your babes. Shall I sit by your side in the hall and look pretty for the rest of my days?”

“For a while yet. No other captain has returned from reaving with such a bounty.” Yara grinned a kraken’s grin. It would have been rakish and charming on a man, just the sort of thing Daenerys had gone weak for in the past. “It’s doing wonders for my reputation.”

“How wonderful for you. I am _so_ pleased.”

“You might do something besides complain. Make yourself useful. Endear yourself to me, and I’ll make sure it goes well for you. I don’t have to keep you forever. In fact, I don’t want to.”

Daenerys studied her. She seemed sincere, and Yara wasn’t artful with pretty words or complicated lies.

“What do you want to do with me, then?”

Her words were blunt. “Your brother’s Mad King Aerys all over again. He’ll die soon enough. Perhaps not before taking out his nephew first, though.”

“Viserys would never,” she blurted, but then her throat closed up with fear. _If Aegon woke the dragon . . ._ Targaryens were not a peaceful House, not even among themselves.

“That leaves you,” Yara finished.

That wasn’t quite right. “But Rhaenys—”

“Hasn’t had a child in near ten years of marriage. I don’t think it’s going to happen now. Do you?”

Daenerys fell silent. For several moments, the only sound in the cabin was the snick of Yara’s knife. She was almost done with the apple.

“What are you proposing? Friendship?” She heaped scorn on the last word.

Yara’s eyes were sharp, narrow. “A mutually beneficial partnership. We women ought to stick together, shouldn’t we?”

“And if I say no?”

“I suppose you can keep jumping into the ocean and I’ll keep fishing you back out. Probably.”

When Yara offered her the last slice of the apple from her knife, Daenerys accepted it.

* * *

Yara flung another dress from the trunk onto the bed. That made four that she’d offered, and now four that Daenerys rejected. With one hooked finger she picked up the latest offering—a flimsy concoction of white lace—and raised an eyebrow in what she hoped was a witheringly judgmental manner.

“If you mean to seat me on the Iron Throne one day, you might ensure that my subjects still have some respect for me when you do. Do you really have no decent dresses?”

Yara spread her arms wide. “Do I look like I wear decent dresses?”

In truth, Daenerys couldn’t imagine Yara in any dress, including the one dangling from her finger that barely deserved the name. There was something about breeches and a jerkin that suited her. The thought would have been ridiculous at court, but here at Castle Pyke, after months of Yara’s company, it came naturally. _I’ve spent too much time among the krakens,_ Daenerys thought, half despairing and half delighted. 

“I’ve never seen you wear any of these,” she said.

Yara scoffed, rummaging through the trunk again. “That’s because I never have and I never will.”

“Why do you have them, then?”

“They were gifts.” Yara bit off the last word.

“From . . . your mother? Father?” Daenerys hazarded.

“There are plenty of Ironborn men who don’t like to see a woman captaining a ship. They’ve taken to trying to rectify the matter, or at least humiliating me. Every nameday comes, I can expect to find some new frills in my bedchamber.”

“But they’re insulting you! Don’t your father, your brothers, take umbrage?” As wild and unpredictable as he was, Viserys would never have let such an insult to his sister stand.

Yara snorted. “I’ve never told them, and you never will, either, or I’ll pitch you overboard myself next time we set foot on the _Black Wind_.”

“You keep them, yet you’ve never worn them?”

Yara’s boot thumped against the trunk. “Yes, Princess, I keep them. One day I’ll make the men who gave them to me wear them myself.”

It made an amusing image. The corners of Daenerys’s mouth curved. “That’s a very poetic justice. Perhaps someone will write a song about it someday.”

Yara huffed a reluctant laugh. “I hope so. Here, come here and try this.” She held something blue up against Daenerys’s figure. It was deep blue and low-necked, but at least her shoulders wouldn’t be bare. Daenerys held up the top of the dress while Yara measured it against her waist with large hands that lingered a few moments longer than necessary. Even after she let go, Daenerys could still feel a lingering warmth spreading across her ribcage.

"This will do," she said, clutching the dress to her bosom as Yara let go and turned away, closing the trunk with a click.

"Don't think this means I'm going to do your hair every day for you," said Yara.

"But I was so hoping. You seem like such an expert." Daenerys cast an eye over Yara's plain dark locks, which she never did anything at all with, only occasionally perhaps the plainest braid.

The corner of Yara's mouth quirked up. "You have a sharp tongue, Princess. Mind someone doesn't cut it out of you."

"Would you let that happen, when it amuses you so?" Daenerys had taken to offering sly commentary on the other inhabitants of the castle during dinners, whispered low in Yara's ear. It was the only part of her new life that felt like the old one--like she was once again gossiping in the corner with her ladies.

“Don’t go thinking you’re special to me or anything like that,” Yara warned, though there _was_ fondness in her voice.

Daenerys wore the dress to dinner, and she didn’t miss how Yara’s eyes dipped to trace the outline of her breasts.

* * *

No one came for her. It was not surprising, but what was surprising was how much it still struck Daenerys like a blow. Viserys's attention was understandably elsewhere, occupied by the Northern rebellion, but she'd expected the Starks to come for her, to regain their political pawn if nothing else. But then word came of how Robb Stark had tupped a highborn girl in the westerlands and married her, and that was the end of that. It would have been a relief, but for how embarrassing it was to be forgotten, put aside. Irrelevant, but for Yara’s regard.

Other news arrived. Aegon was dead, only weeks before his coronation, though reports were not clear on what exactly had happened. When she crumpled the letter in her fist, eyes blurring, Yara had been quiet and gentle for once, stroking her hair until she fell asleep.

Viserys had the crown. She wondered if he would turn his attention to her now that she was no longer attached. He had often expressed jealousy and rage over her Northern betrothal, how she ought to have been his by rights. Even with the Iron Islands now in open rebellion--spurred by the turmoil and fragility of the succession--she found herself hoping, inexplicably, to remain in captivity. Better the wife of a kraken than whatever Viserys had planned for her.

* * *

The Iron Islands were dreary, and Daenerys almost never saw the sun when Yara's ship was docked. But sometimes, when she wasn't off raiding or helping capture Northern lands for her father, Yara took her riding.

"More apples?" Daenerys asked as they took a familiar path. The only kind of fruit that would grow in the thin, rocky soil here were sour, stunted crabapples. It was autumn; they were in season.

“Fruit of a kind,” said Yara cryptically, but then they passed the small grove and arrived at the dock. They dismounted the horses and boarded a ship Daenerys had never seen. Confusion fluttered through Daenerys: she hadn’t been told to pack anything.

Waiting for them in one of the cabins was a man she recognized from her time at court: the one they called the spider, always standing in the shadows, with his flock of little birds.

“Lord Varys,” she said warily, Yara at her back.

He bowed, ever courteous. “Your Grace.”

Daenerys’s fingers clenched convulsively in her skirts. “Are you here to take me home, my lord?” It was the only reason she could think of for Yara’s complicity. She’d had no word of Viserys’s death; had her brother arranged for her return through Yara? She could not look behind her, could not make herself look at Yara’s face.

He let out a titter. “Oh, no. I’m here to deliver, not take, Your Grace.”

“Deliver? Deliver what?”

Varys stepped aside, gesturing to an ornately carved box. “Think of it as a very belated”—his eyes darted over her shoulder, his first acknowledgement of Yara’s presence, and his lip twitched in amusement—“wedding present. All the way from the eastern continent.”

* * *

Three dragon eggs could raise you an army, Yara said. The noble houses don’t want to burn. They are eager for an alternative to rally behind.

But he’s my brother, Daenerys replied. I will meet with him.

* * *

A true dragon would not have burned. Viserys, it seemed, was no true dragon. The thought was not a great comfort to Daenerys as she emerged from the flames, naked and with the taste of ashes in her mouth.

Then Yara was there, putting her cloak around Daenerys’s shoulders, wiping her tears.

* * *

“Well, it’s not sweet poems or wildflowers,” Yara said. Her boots thumped on the marble floor of the throne room. Daenerys watched as she made a full circuit, then came to a stop at the foot of the Iron Throne, at Daenerys's left hand.

"So," Yara said, and spun so that her back was showing. "You have your dragons, you have your kingdoms--most of them, anyway--you have your crown, and you have what looks to be one very uncomfortable chair."

"That's the point. It's not supposed to be comfortable, ruling." The throne had cost her, and it would keep costing her.

Yara snorted. "Seems like _missing_ the point to me. I don't think I'll make one for myself."

"No? And what do you plan to do now?" Daenerys shifted, and winced: the tip of a blade poked into her back, poised at just the right angle to slide through her heart.

Yara's head turned just enough for Daenerys to see the sweep of her dark lashes across her cheek. "Well, I'm sure I have many queenly duties to attend. As do you."

"You mean to leave, then?" The question was deceptively light, though underneath her queen's steady face Daenerys's heart beat faster.

"I'll have to eventually."

"And until then?"

Yara's voice was low. "What would _you_ have me do? Speak plainly, Princess."

It was unaccountably rude, to speak to her so, but Daenerys didn't mind. Hadn't minded for some time. She was always making exceptions for Yara; this would only be one more. She slid to the edge of the throne and perched there, like a bird on a branch, poised to take flight. Yara turned into her as she moved, as if in reflex, and they found each other face-to-face.

Daenerys's hands rose to frame her long face. Something in Yara's stern expression softened, something that made Daenerys lean down and brush her lips against Yara's.

She meant for it to be only that, a nearly chaste kiss, but she should have known better: Yara pushed between her knees and returned her kiss with aggression, deepened it with the kind of assurance that Daenerys had noticed from the beginning, that sent shivers up her spine. Daenerys made a sound in the back of her throat, almost a whimper, and she felt a rumble go through Yara's chest.

When the kiss ended, she struggled to make her voice steady. "I'm sure I can think of something," Daenerys murmured, and slid off the throne. Yara caught her waist with both hands and tugged her closer. "Wife of the dragon."


End file.
